


plausible deniability

by reconditarmonia



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Femdom, Fugue Feast (Dishonored)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-16 23:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21279143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reconditarmonia/pseuds/reconditarmonia
Summary: Two strangers at a Fugue Feast.





	plausible deniability

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kay_obsessive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_obsessive/gifts).

Whiskey by the bottle, smoking white leaf, smashing windows and starting fights in the streets, taking someone pretty or less-than-pretty to bed as the occasion strikes — Meagan's no high-strung noblewoman or buttoned-up clerk who needs to wait for the Fugue Feast to indulge her vices. When the Fugue arrives, then, and the noise of celebration starts to fill the streets and echo from the sun-bleached walls, she usually finds herself on her ship, or in a quiet bar backroom ashore with some like-minded friends. There were a few memorably wild Fugues back when she was younger, even so, but those days are over.

This year, a little clutch of young scions of the nobility decided to get their Fugue started a few hours early, and cornered her as she walked back down to the docks. Even armed as they were, it wasn't hard for her to lay them out cold, women and men both, too stupid to think about other reasons someone might be keeping their head down. But it makes that old anger rise, hot and dark, like she remembers it, and back on the Dreadful Wale, she shoves crates aside until she can blow the dust off a trunk she hasn't touched since she moved her things in here. She opens it and looks into a face she hasn't seen in years: her Whaler mask.

Nostalgia's a vice as much as any other.

She's not going to walk down the middle of Ravina Boulevard like this; that's for someone who'd wear this mask to be shocking, who'd have her servant find or make something like it, not someone who'd ever worn it for real. The satisfaction of it is in sliding through the shadows, in hauling herself up to a balcony or a low rooftop to sneak under windows or look down and watch the unsuspecting crowds below, people dancing close or fighting or both; in dropping into an empty alley and forgetting, for a split second before she lands, that the ground she's about to land on is the dry ground of Karnaca.

No one's supposed to notice her, so when she feels the prickle of eyes on the back of her neck, she turns around fully expecting to find nothing but her paranoid imagination, or some reveler whose gaze has already passed her by. No — there's a man standing under the overhang of a building across the square, some shop or other, half in shadow himself; his mask makes it hard to see his eyes, but he's looking right at her. 

She crosses the square towards him, and he doesn't move. Closer up, she can see the wolflike features of his mask, the streaks of gray in his dark hair, his gloves. Maybe looking for an easy mark or two in the crowd; there's a watchfulness in his whole stance.

"Want a light?" she asks, taking out her matchbook. 

He looks at her for a moment. "Thanks," he says, fishing out a cigarette packet from his coat pocket. It's not what she expected, somehow, but then again, not everyone in Serkonos can afford Serkonan cigars.

Meagan leans against the door — closed and locked, of course, wooden slats wedged against the glass from the inside as protection from the Fugue crowds, the dim light of a lamp left on — while he smokes it down. There's a touch of chill damp in the air with the storm soon to come in from the bay, and here in the square they're the only two out on the dark edges of the festivities, two strangers watching in a silence that feels comfortable enough.

He finishes the cigarette, drops it and grinds it out. She's lost the powers that let her reach out and sense the world around her through the Void, but whether she's Meagan or Billie or something else, she'll always be that girl from the streets, so she moves like a flash to wrench the man's arm up and away from her, twist until he drops the knife that's appeared in his hand, pin his wrist to the door above his head. She won't end up a body lying in the square, nameless and unmissed until the harbormaster wants his fees.

Astonishingly, she can make out a smile beneath the bottom edge of the mask. "Good to see you haven't lost your touch." The man sounds winded, voice rasping from more than the tobacco smoke. 

Her heartbeat speeds up, as he flexes his hand and pulls against her grip, and she holds his wrist fast. "You don't know me," she says.

If it was a stranger, he wouldn't be standing there and just letting her pin him, probably. But if it was Daud, she wouldn't have been able to.

Maybe this is what makes her bold — makes her raise the hand that's not pinning his and deliberately slide two fingers under his mask, already mostly expecting it when he growls wordlessly and catches her wrist in turn before she can feel either smooth skin or a scar. It's the Fugue, after all. So, instead, she reaches into her pocket for her lockpick — a new life didn't mean going entirely straight, though she doesn't often use it — and puts it in his hand. "Open this."

He meets her eyes and feels behind him, clearly practiced enough, but it still takes her hand bracing his for the lock to click and the door to swing open behind them. She drops her hand from his wrist to fist in the front of his coat; one, two, three steps in, almost a dance, and then she kicks it shut.

It's the first fight in years that hasn't been for her life, though the office, as their surroundings turn out to be, is very far, in more ways than one, from any of the places she used to train in. Meagan pushes, he pushes back, and if they were fighting to kill then it'd be worth it to him to make a break for the knife lying on the ground outside, or she'd press her advantage when he finds her further than he expects and overreaches, or he would when she's too slow. 

Until he stumbles, and goes sprawling, and this time Meagan's done offering him a hand up; she stands over him as they both catch a breath, and plants her boot on his chest.

She can see the muscles of his throat move as he swallows, the tension in his body, but he doesn't make a move to throw her off. So she pushes further.

"It was meant to end like this," she says, heart still racing, something hot settling low in her body, finding the words somewhere.

"Nothing's meant," he says, but even so, he's getting up to his knees, tilting his head back as though, she thinks, for her blade.

From there it's rough and quick: Meagan buries one hand in his hair and drags him up from the floor, his breath hissing out sharply, letting him go only to hoist herself onto the nearest desk. He sinks to his knees again in front of her, both hands pressing into the muscle of her thighs. A moment as she has to stand to shove her trousers and drawers down; her hand clenched in his hair again as she pulls his face towards her, the hard edge of the mask digging into her skin and the wet heat of his tongue, clumsy and fast, on her. Finding her own knife in her boot and holding the sharp edge, half expecting this to abruptly end everything, to the side of his neck; the sound that comes from deep in his throat as he shifts on his knees and licks her harder, and the wave of power and arousal that swamps her senses, nearly enough to overwhelm the tightness building all through her.

And suddenly it's not enough to imagine the face under the wolf mask anymore, one way or the other; the need to know is unbearable. "Take off — your gloves," she grits out through her teeth. He doesn't lift his mouth from her, but pulls off the left one only, and grips her hip harder with his right hand as he slides his fingers inside her. She catches a glimpse, quick but unmistakable, of a black stain on the back of his hand. She's already so wound up that it doesn't take long, after that.

He doesn't hide the mark from her, afterwards, though even kneeling at her feet, there's an unease to him, and she can see his glance dart minutely towards her knife.

"Lurk," he says.

Later, they'll sit together on the edge of a roof and drink Karnacan whiskey that tastes like paint thinner, worse even than the worst Dunwall had to offer. He'll do some jobs for her, when the Fugue ends, and grumble about the honest work she's stooped to. For now, she unfastens the straps of her mask. "I've heard that name before," she says, pulling it from her face and dropping it on the desk beside her. "Didn't she bring down Daud?"


End file.
